


Trail Gone Cold

by RoseisaRoseisaRose



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Mild Fantasy Violence, Modern AU, Monster Hunters AU, Open Ending, previous relationship (sort of I guess)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27318553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseisaRoseisaRose/pseuds/RoseisaRoseisaRose
Summary: Annette waits on the rooftops of Fhirdiad, eating trail mix she's picked all the M+Ms out of and making up songs to pass the time. Beneath her, dangerous and sinister figures stalk the streets below.A modern urban fantasy AU with a gang of werewolves, a public transportation conspiracy theory, and a side of Netteflix just for kicks. Happy Halloween, my lovelies!
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 25
Kudos: 50





	Trail Gone Cold

Anntte grabbed a handful of trail mix and held it up in the dim light of the streetlamp just below her. She frowned, poking through the raisins and peanuts, on the lookout for any M+Ms, but it seemed she’d eaten them all the last time she’d taken this bunch of trail mix with her. With a sigh, Annette began picking raisins out of the handful and eating those, one by one. She wasn’t even hungry. She was just bored.

  


Stakeout missions were the worst; she’d always thought that. She wasn’t allowed to read, she wasn’t supposed to listen to music – even humming was off limits, as evidently she was in possession of a “loud hum” that could tip people off. She sometimes passed the time by writing songs about her surroundings, or her plans for tomorrow, dumb little ditties that would amuse Mercie the next day. But mostly she ate snacks, rifling around in the bag Mercie packed her, labeled “Patrol Sweets” in loopy embroidery, some artifact of an inside joke from their early days in the hunting business. Annette cursed the lack of chocolate, but it was better than nothing.

  


The weather was gross that night, damp and drizzly, and Annette retreated further under her oversized hoodie, folding in on herself as she waited. It wasn’t really even enough to be called a proper rain, more just a fog that had gotten overly ambitious, but the water did seem to muffle the world into a hazy blur. The street lamps below Annette let out a muted glow, warm and golden pinpoints in a grey and dreary cityscape. In the distance, she could hear the omnipresent rush of traffic, all engines and horns and squealing brakes. She’d grown up in the country; she never understood how people who lived in Fhirdiad could sleep through the night when the city was never quiet enough to let them.

  


_Cars go by, dreary sky, wish I had a pumpkin pie_ , she muttered to herself, half a tune drawing out the final syllable of each phrase, but too whispered for anyone to hear her. She hoped this wasn’t another false tip-off; last week she’d huddled up on a park bench until 5 a.m. before calling it quits and heading home empty handed, a handful of motivated joggers giving her confused looks of pity as they ran by her. She added a second verse. _Nothing to see, almost past three, starting to think there’s no one but_ –

  


She cut off at the sound of the figure turning down the alleyway beneath her, her ears trained for the slightest change in sound nearby, car horns in the distance or no. Annette threw the remaining trail mix into her “Patrol Sweets” bag and eagerly peered over the side of the rooftop, down into the alley below, just in time to see a similarly-hooded figure walking into the alley. Annette’s shoulders tensed, and then slumped, as she realized the figure was similar to her in many ways – short, small, female, and human, wearing a flared skirt and a giant hoodie that she seems to sink into, her purple hair spilling over the sides of the hood on occasion.

  


Annette frowned and retreated away from the edge of the roof. It wasn’t a part of town she’d expect to see people cutting through this late at night – or was it early in the morning, at this point? Still, it wasn’t any of her business if Miss Hoodie McFlaredskirt decided to take ill-advised shortcuts on her own time, and Annette crouched back out of sight, disappointment that she was going to spend another fruitless night on a city rooftop, watching nothing and waiting for no one.

  


“Lost your way, friend? This isn’t a usual shortcut.”

  


Annette snapped back to looking over the roof’s edge so fast that her hood fell back and her hair flipped into her eyes. She didn’t even mind as she pushed her hair back, staring eagerly over the edge. A tall, broad-shouldered shadow had appeared at the other end of the alley, as if it had been waiting for the girl below this entire time. He stepped into the street light, and Annette could make out his shaggy hair, the scar across his face, his shabby overcoat. Cast in half-shadow, he cut a looming, terrifying figure, seeming to take up the entire alleyway.

  


Annette beamed as she peered over the rooftop. _Finally_.

  


The girl in the hoodie took a step backwards, clearly able to spot trouble when she saw it. “L-l-l-lost?” she stuttered, taking a step back. “N-n-no, not me. I m-m-missed my bus connection, b-b-but I know where I’m going.”

  


Annette frowned and leaned forward to peer at the man as he walked further into the alley. Mercie’s tipoff had mentioned targeting people walking home alone at night – waitresses with the night shift, clubbers separated from friends, university students without reliable transportation. Annette vaguely wondered if they relied on people with bad luck, or a missed bus connection could point to a larger sabotage effort to force people out on the streets.

  


She put these thoughts out of her mind as she heard a shriek. She looked down, alarmed that she’d timed her attack too late, but the girl had only tripped over some rubbish and fallen backwards into the alleyway. Her hoodie fell back, revealing a wild mop of uncombed purple hair.

  


“Did anyone ever tell you it’s dangerous to be out this late at night?” the figure said, walking closer with confident ease. “I’ll help you get to where you’re going.”

  


He reached out a hand and the girl flinched away from him. Annette reached into her bag and crouched at the edge of the roof.

  


“No – don’t –” the girl spluttered, but the man had already begun to transform. Annette spotted the telltale signs of a werewolf – long claws appeared first, and she was sure there were fangs if you looked closely at the face. It was biologically strategic – transform weapons-first, as it were.

  


Annette flung herself off the roof, landing on a closed dumpster and then leaping to land in a crouch between the silhouette and his prey. By the time she hit the ground, he was transformed – a fully-formed werewolf snarled back at her.

  


Annette reached into her bag and pulled out the hatchet. Magic was all well and good when there were no witnesses, but she liked to err on the side of plausible deniability.

  


The werewolf snarled and swiped a clawed hand at her. Annette easily jumped back and then lunged forward, swinging her axe into the werewolf’s arm and pulling back quickly. The wolf howled in pain – literally, it started as a growl and then transformed into a high pitched, eerie howl into the air above them.

  


Annette looked over her shoulder at Hoodie Girl, who had gotten to her feet.

  


“Now would be a good time to run,” she advised. The girl opened her mouth, stuttered a few nonspecific consonants, and collapsed into a dead faint. Annette was halfway through a disappointed sigh when motion caught in her peripheral vision, and she turned to see the werewolf swiping at her again.

  


Annette narrowly ducked the swipe and used the momentum of jumping back up to swing her axe upwards, clipping the side of the wolf as he twisted away from her. Her axe was sharp, and silver, but it barely caused a scratch against his thick hide. Annette knew the game with werewolves. She was faster, smaller, lighter, but they could withstand hit after hit with little trouble. Whittling away at endless stamina wouldn’t work here; she needed something with a bit more power to it.

  


The unconscious girl at the end of the alleyway was also something of a problem. As Annette dodged teeth and claws and returned her own swings of an axe, she gradually backed away to the opposite end of the alley, trying to lure the monster away from his prey. It seemed to work – at any rate, he was certainly smart enough not to turn his back on Annette with an axe.

  


Annette scanned the wolf and planned her next hit. If she could get some height, maybe, she’d be able to strike at his neck; a more vulnerable spot. Or if she could somehow distract him enough to maneuver around him –

  


Annette didn’t notice the discarded beer bottle until it was under her feet and she was flailing wildly. The werewolf didn’t give her time to recover. Claws met shoulder and Annette dropped her axe with a cry. Other claws met other shoulder and Annette found herself thrown up against the cold brick of the alleyway, staring up at the slobbering, toothy grin of the werewolf.

  


He didn’t monologue anymore – werewolves rarely did, once transformed, but he took just a second too long to look at her, and Annette suspected if he’d been in human form, he would have had a whole slew of jeers to throw her way. She glanced under his arm and saw her hatchet lying uselessly on the pavement. She couldn’t duck past him to get it; it was too far away.

  


Annette grimaced. Magic it was, then. She didn’t like to use it when she didn’t have to, but if all witnesses were unconscious or about to be worse than unconscious, she could probably get away with it. Annette called the quickest spell she knew to her fingers. Her hands began to glow green; the hair began to lift off her shoulders.

  


She looked up at the werewolf, and returned his grin.

  


The werewolf raised his arm to swing.

  


A slew of arrows crashed into the wolf before either of them had a chance to move. Three, maybe four, by Annette’s count, and they couldn’t have hit all at once, but they were certainly in rapid succession. The wolf stumbled backwards, away from Annette, giving another howl, and Annette dropped her magic and jerked her head towards the opposite end of the alley.

  


Two shadowy figures were standing in the alley, bows drawn. Well, one figure was standing. The other was already running forward, throwing their bow across their back and drawing what looked like a sword.

  


Annette flattened herself against the wall. Her hatchet was more retrievable now that she wasn’t pinned against the wall, but she knew when to stay out of the way.

  


It wasn’t a fair fight – the werewolf was already badly injured, even if that swordsman wasn’t fast, and brutal, and wielding a silver blade. Annette looked over at his friend, who lazily twirled an arrow through his fingers, now even bothering to string his bow. The werewolf fell with a final, garbled howl. He didn’t move after he fell.

  


Annette leaned against the wall and bit her lip. That didn’t stop a strangled grumble of frustration from escaping her as the second silhouette walked more clearly into view.

  


“Well well well,” he said cheerfully, stepping more clearly into the light and giving Annette a dazzling smile. “If it isn’t Little Red Lizzie Hatchet.”

  


“I think you mean Lizzie Borden,” Annette snapped. “And none of those are my name, Sylvain.” She gingerly stepped around the body of the werewolf and leaned down to pick up her axe. She frowned, reaching into her bag to pull out a handkerchief that Mercie had monogrammed with ACYS (“Always Clean Your Sword”) in the bottom corner. She began wiping blood and other gross things off the end of her axe, her least favorite part of any mission.

  


Sylvain Gautier, who preferred to go without the Gautier, leaned against the wall and watched her as she cleaned her axe. “Lucky coincidence we were tracking the same wolf that was tracking you, eh? Felix here was worried sick when he heard you scream.”

  


“It wasn’t a _scream_ , it was a _battle-cry_ ,” Annette grumbled, turning her annoyed glare to the figure at her feet. Felix Fraldarius looked up from where he’d been examining the werewolf’s body. Annette narrowed her eyes at him. He’d changed his hair since the last time they’d met, some inexplicably complicated knot at the back of his head, but he had the same leather jacket and the same sharp cheekbones and the same piercing, amber eyes. Annette had rather hoped she’d remembered his eyes incorrectly, but they were just as sharp and bright and searching as the last time he’d looked at her. He glanced at her for a brief second and then turned to Sylvain without so much as a nod in her direction. Annette fumed so hard she could swear she made the back of _his_ ears turn red.

  


“Definitely one of Miklan’s gang,” he said, frowning up at Sylvain. “Looks to be a newer recruit; might’ve been an early solo hunt for him. Not the man himself, obviously.” 

  


“Obviously,” Sylvain echoed, just a hint of bitterness in his reply. “He’s not tall enough or ugly enough. And it would’ve taken more than the three of us to take him down, I imagine. Or at any rate, Red here would’ve needed to hang onto her hatchet better.”

  


“Or get a bigger one. Are all your weapons so travel-sized?” Felix asked, scanning Annette up and down with a curious glance.

  


“I was fine. I have magic,” Annette said grumpily, throwing her now-clean axe back into her bag. “Unlike you two dolts.”

  


“Dangerous time to use magic, with witnesses around. Although I guess your witnesses aren’t likely to have much to report,” Felix said. He nodded towards Hoodie Girl, still passed out at the other end of the alley. “She okay?” he asked, the braced anticipation of bad news on the tip of his tongue.

  


Annette shook her head to banish his darkest concerns. “She just fainted,” she said flatly. “I was going to call her an uber or something before I dragged this guy to CEIROS.”

  


“Ah, playing by the book tonight, are we?” Sylvain said with a smile. “Very community minded of you.” There were other, less savory entities that would pay more money for evidence of supernatural activity in Fhirdiad, but Annette and Mercedes preferred to work with more legitimate forums. The Center for Extramundane Intelligence and Research for the Otherworldly and Supernatural may not have been the _most_ transparent agency in Fodlan – Annette suspected most citizens didn’t even know it existed – but the work it did was at least supervised and coordinated, and ostensibly they worked with public interest in mind.

  


She didn’t say anything about this to Sylvain. Instead, she kicked the werewolf's body slightly, causing Felix to lean back away from her. She leaned down to try to hoist it above her shoulder.

  


“Community minded is one way of putting it,” she said. “But I’ve already fought off one creep tonight. I’m not taking my chances with unauthorized hunter guilds. They don’t always play nice when they think they can get away with it.”

  


Sylvain, to his credit, winced for a moment, but hid it well with another charming smile. “Well, then, our purposes are the same, tonight!” he said grandly, swooping down and grabbing the werewolf body as Annette struggled to get to her feet. “Felix and I are also trying to get in good with the higher ups at CEIROS. We’re playing strictly for bureaucracy this month.”

  


Annette gave a small gasp as Sylvain hoisted the werewolf over his shoulder, effectively yanking it out of her grasp “Hey –” she started to protest.

  


“Let’s split up the tasks, what do you say?” Sylvain said cheerfully. “You get your friend over there home safely, and we’ll drop this ex-wolf off at headquarters for you.”

  


“That’s _my mark_ , Sylvain,” Annette said, her voice rising to a slight squeak that she hated. When Sylvain only offered an apologetic smile, she turned to his friend. “Felix??” she demanded, bearing down on him with her hands on her hips.

  


Felix stood up and gave a small, guilty shrug. “We did help take him down, Annie,” he said. “We’ve been tracking this guy all night.”

  


“You can’t just – you’re poaching my mark! You villains!” Annette said, glaring at Felix with all her might. He at least had the decency to turn more sullen. Sylvain just smiled wider.

  


“Poaching? Don’t worry, Annie,” he said, casting a sly glance at Felix that Annette didn’t miss. “We’ll send you your share of the loot. Fifty-fifty, how about that? I’m sure your lovely Miss Martritz is running comms for you; she’ll want her cut as well.”

  


“I – you can’t –” Annette spluttered, glancing frantically around for inspiration. Her eyes fell on Felix’s sword, which he was still clutching in his hand. He hadn’t gotten a chance to clean it, and her stomach turned, despite everything, remembering the way he pulled the wolf away from her and the flash of silver in the misty streetlights. She felt a flash of guilt - anyone with any sense would have stayed back and let arrows finish the job. Felix never had any sense. “Sixty-forty,” she said quickly, still looking at the sword.

  


Sylvain laughed, already walking away. “Fifty-fifty, and Felix will buy you lunch the next time you remember to text him back,” he called over his shoulder. “See you around, Annie.”

  


Annette settled her glare onto Felix, who lingered behind Sylvain, and finally looked up at her as he slung his sword back into its holder. “I’ll, um . . . I’ll get Sylvain to knock off the nicknames,” he said. She continued to glare. “I can knock them off too?” he ventured. “I know we haven’t talked in a while, but at New Year’s, I don’t know if you remember saying this, but –”

  


“That was my kill, Felix,” she snapped, cutting him off because she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what she wouldn’t remember saying. “I would’ve been fine and you know it.”

  


“Yeah, well,” Felix shrugged. “I didn’t want to take the chance.” He looked back at Sylvain, who was already disappearing around the corner, and then back to Annette. “Listen, I know you and Mercedes are casting a wider net than just Miklan’s gang, but if you ever want to team up for a mission –”

  


“After this stunt you pulled tonight?” Annette cut him off. “You have some nerve, Fraldarius.”

  


“I get preferring to work on your own, don’t get me wrong,” Felix said. “And I get that Sylvain kind of comes off as unreliable sometimes –”

  


“ _Sylvain’s_ not the one who didn’t return my – why are we even talking about this,” Annette said shortly.

  


Felix plowed ahead even if the question was rhetorical. “I’m just saying, these jobs are dangerous. If you ever find yourself in over your head on a gig, it wouldn’t hurt to –”

  


There was a crash behind them, and Annette turned to find the girl struggling to sit up, knocking over boxes as she grabbed them for balance.

  


When she looked back around, Felix had disappeared. Annette puffed out her cheeks and sighed.

  


It took her two minutes to get the girl to her feet, ten minutes to get her to calm down long enough to explain it was a mugging gone wrong, two minutes to call a taxi and another fifteen to stand with the girl waiting for it to arrive as she returned her stories of seeing hair and teeth and claws with an expression of mild surprise and a justification that people often remembered frightening experiences incorrectly immediately after the fact. The girl promised to text her when she got home and eagerly entered “Bernie Bear” into Annette’s phone, and sent her four texts on the way home updating her on her suspicions whether or not the taxi driver was secretly trying to drive her across the Adrestian border as part of a kidnapping conspiracy.

  


Mercie was supposed to pick Annette up at five unless she called earlier, but Annette decided the walk to the bus stop would do her good. Luckily, this bus arrived directly on time.

  


Fifteen minutes from her stop, Annette got a venmo notification from Felix. 60% of the standard price for a werewolf bounty. _Your cut. Sorry Sylvain’s an asshole._ the memo line read.

  


Thirteen minutes from home, Annette got a venmo notification from Sylvain Gautier for one dollar. _let fe buy u lunch hes been moody all nite_ he wrote along with the payment.

  


Ten minutes from home her phone buzzed, and Annette was surprised it wasn’t yet another venmo notification for fifteen cents, but instead a text message from a number she was pretty sure she’d deleted at some drunken girl’s night with Hilda.

  


_Sorry I’m an asshole, too._

  


Annette threw her phone in her bag. It clanged loudly against the hatchet.

  


**Author's Note:**

> I tried to write a ghost story for Halloween last year and then I published it on November 9 and there was barely a ghost. This year I redeem myself!
> 
> I love urban fantasy novels, where everything is kind of dirty even though it's always raining and someone is wearing a leather jacket to show they're cool and the dialogue is kind of like Buffy but worse. My dream. Would read zillions of them. Would . . .. write zillions of them? Idk, this one seems like your standard Proof of Concept oneshot but maybe someday I'll come up with a plot and turn it into a multichapter. Let me know if you'd read it; I can promise more axes.
> 
> Happy Halloween! Don't let the ghosts rise up from the well to get you! Or whatever scary story Mercedes has tucked up her sleeve this time.
> 
> [Catch me on twitter RTing all the spooky art. ](https://twitter.com/Rose3Writes)


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